by Annie West
Even his lawyer’s dire warnings about paternity tests wouldn’t stop him doing what he could for her. He’d been told he had no duty to her legally. But legalities weren’t the issue.
‘I can do better than that.’ He cleared his throat, conscious his voice sounded gruff. ‘I’ll have my PA make the arrangements if you bring me your passport. She can book a dinner cruise too.’
‘She’s still working?’ Imogen glanced at her watch.
‘I usually keep much longer business hours than this.’ He’d cut them back when she’d been in Paris last time, working like a demon all day so he could have his evenings free for her. He stooped to pick up the reports he’d dropped and put them on the table. ‘Mademoiselle Janvier will still be at work, believe me.’
‘As long as I can pay you for the air fare.’
Thierry looked at her, standing proud in her high heels. This woman admitted she needed courage to face her last night in Paris and that she was short of cash, yet she refused to take charity when it would be so easy and reasonable.
His heart dipped and skidded to a halt, only to start up again in an uneven rhythm.
She was a wonder. He’d never known a woman like her. Except perhaps his grand-mère, whose petite size and exquisite manners hid a spine of steel.
Would he exhibit such courage in Imogen’s situation? It was one thing to risk his neck in some dangerous adventure, quite another to be stoic in the face of a steady, fatal decline. The thought of what she faced curdled his blood.
‘I’ll make sure you get the bill for any air fare.’ As if that was going to happen. ‘Now, if you’ll get me your passport, I’ll contact my PA.’
* * *
‘I don’t know which is better, the tarte tatin or the scenery.’ Imogen sat back, replete, looking from her empty plate to the beautiful, floodlit bridge they were about to pass under. A series of pale, carved stone heads stared sightlessly out from its side, intriguing her. ‘I knew the Eiffel Tower looked terrific lit up, and Notre Dame and all the other buildings, but these bridges are amazing.’
Silently she vowed to store the memory of this last night with Thierry to pull out and remember later, when her condition worsened and the shadows closed in.
‘So...’ Beside her Thierry lifted his glass and sipped. ‘It’s not the company you’re enjoying?’
When he looked at her that way, his eyes gleaming and that hint of a cleft grooving his cheek as he smiled, Imogen’s heart leapt. In the subtle light of the lanterns on deck he looked suavely sophisticated. Yet Imogen knew from experience that his rangy frame, which showed off a dinner jacket to perfection, was actually a symphony of lean, hard-packed muscle and bone. He might look indolent but the man beneath the sophisticated exterior had the body of an athlete, and such strength...
Desperately, she dragged her eyes away. Pregnancy, like illness, had no effect on her attraction to him. If anything her response was sharper, more urgent. Because she’d developed a craving for his love-making and, just as importantly, because he made her feel special.
‘Are you after a compliment?’ Imogen forced herself to smile, hiding her tumble of emotions. Desire, gratitude, piercing regret and that undercurrent of fear. Once she left him she’d face her future alone. She squared her shoulders. ‘It’s wonderful of you to make my last night in Paris so memorable. I can’t tell you how much it means.’
‘You already have.’ A casual gesture dismissed what he’d done as negligible. But Imogen was no fool. She’d been about to use the last of her available money to pay for a package tourist-trip. Instead, she’d found herself on a private luxury cruiser where they were the only guests, waited on by superb staff and eating one of the best meals of her life. The cost must have been exorbitant.
She leaned forward, reaching for Thierry’s arm, till she realised what she was doing and grabbed her water glass instead.
‘Don’t brush it off as nothing, Thierry. What you’ve done...’ To her horror she felt her throat thicken. ‘You should at least let me thank you.’
Over the rim of his glass, Thierry’s eyes locked with hers and a tingle of sensation shot through her, spreading to her breasts before arrowing to her womb. Imogen sucked in a stunned breath. Her body’s urgent response to him threatened to unravel her totally.
Even the knowledge her condition had apparently killed his desire for her couldn’t stop that throb of feminine wanting. She’d read his closed expression and understood he saw her as a victim, a figure of pity, not a desirable woman.
‘You want to thank me?’ He put his glass down and leaned close. Too close, but she couldn’t seem to pull back. ‘Good. Because there’s something I want you to do.’
‘There is?’ She couldn’t imagine what. Unless, of course, it was the DNA test to prove paternity. She’d heard there were risks involved with those during pregnancy but if it meant giving her child a secure future...
‘Yes.’ He paused so long tension tightened the bare skin of her shoulders. ‘I want you to marry me.’
There was a thud and cold liquid spilled onto her thigh. Vaguely Imogen was aware of Thierry reaching out to grab her water glass before it could roll onto the deck.
She didn’t move, just sat, goggling.
‘Ah, thank you.’ He spoke to the waiter who appeared out of nowhere to mop the tablecloth and clear the plates. All the while Thierry sat there, leaning back now, one arm looped casually over the back of his chair, watching her.
The waiter left.
‘What did you say?’ Her voice was a croak from constricted muscles.
‘I want us to marry. This week.’
He looked so relaxed, as if he’d merely commented on the quality of the meal they’d shared, or on the beautiful old buildings floodlit along the banks of the Seine.
Her pulse fluttered like a mad thing. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Never more so.’ They approached another bridge and for a few moments were bathed in light. That was when she saw it, the glint of determination in those espresso-dark eyes. And the arrogant thrust of his chin.
Imogen wasn’t aware of moving but she heard a scrape and suddenly she was on her feet, stumbling for the deck’s rail. She clutched it with hands that shook.
She didn’t know what she felt. This was one shock too many. Her legs wobbled and she had trouble dragging in enough oxygen.
‘There’s no need for that,’ she finally gasped out. ‘Is this you trying to be kind?’ She didn’t need pity, no matter how good his intentions.
Imogen spun around, only to find Thierry standing behind her, just a breath away. His clean scent filled her senses as she fought for air.
‘Not kind. Just practical. Planning for the future.’ His voice was smoothly persuasive. Dully, she wondered if he used this tone to broker his business deals. Yet, despite his calm demeanour, she sensed he wasn’t as relaxed as he appeared.
Good! Her heart was racing like a runaway train.
Imogen shook her head. ‘I don’t see what’s practical about it.’ She licked dry lips, peering up into his shadowed features. ‘When the time comes... I’ll ensure you’re named as the father and—’
‘You think it will be that easy? Claiming the child from the other side of the world? No matter what the birth certificate says, I’ll bet Australian law is every bit as complex as in France. There’ll be one hurdle after another for me to claim the baby. It could take months, years.’
The baby. Not his baby.
What had she expected? That a mere twenty-four hours after learning he was going to be a father, Thierry would have the same powerful connection she felt for the tiny life inside her? Of course it was too much to ask. All she could do was hope that with time that would change.
‘Do you want to risk the possibility your baby will be put in care while the legalities are so
rted out?’
Pain scoured her, as if someone took a rusty blade and scraped it through her womb. Her palm found her belly, pressing tenderly as if to make sure that little life was safe inside.
A large hand, warm and callused, covered hers, splaying gently across her abdomen. She blinked and looked up into unreadable eyes.
‘If we marry there will be no legal hurdles. I’ll be responsible for our child. There will be no waiting, no complications. Only what’s best for the baby.’ Thierry’s voice dropped to a low, crooning note that flowed through her like molten chocolate. Or maybe that was the effect of his touch, so real, so sure.
‘You know there’s a chance the baby might not survive?’ She choked back the horror that had haunted her since she’d learned of her pregnancy. The fear that her child might die simply because she wouldn’t live long enough for it to survive.
In the gloom away from the lights, she could just make out the fierce jut of Thierry’s hard jaw.
When he spoke his voice held an edge she couldn’t identify. ‘As your husband, I’ll be in a position to do everything possible for it. And for you.’
For one enticing moment Imogen let herself imagine leaning on Thierry as she had today, allowing him to take care of her. But ultimately they were strangers.
‘I don’t belong here, Thierry. My home is in Australia.’
‘Yet you admit you’ve got no one to look after you there.’
‘You think I came to Paris to find someone who’d look after me?’ She tried to free her hand from his but he simply pressed closer, crowding her against the railing. ‘I’m Australian. I belong there.’
‘And who will care for you?’ His words were like soft blows, hammering at her. ‘You have no family. Have you close friends who’ll be there whenever you need them? Have you got anyone?’
Said like that, he made her sound so pathetic. ‘My really good friends have all moved away with jobs or family.’ And, while she got on well with her work colleagues, this last year she’d been so wrapped up in grief after Izzy’s death, then busy caring for her mother, that she’d got out of the habit of accepting social invitations. She’d effectively cut herself off. ‘But I’ll be fine. The health service—’
‘I’m not talking about people paid to look after you.’ His fingers closed around hers and he lifted her hand between them. To her surprise he planted her palm against his mouth and pressed a kiss to it. A kiss that sent heat and wonder coursing through her, reminding her she wasn’t dead yet.
‘I’m talking about someone who will be there for you. Someone who can deal with the medicos when you’re too weary. Someone who’ll be on hand to look after our child.’
Imogen’s heart swelled. Put that way, the offer was irresistible.
‘You know I’m right, Imogen.’ His lips moved against her sensitive palm and the low burr of his voice curled around her like an embrace. And something inside, some selfish, needy part of her, urged her to accept.
Silently, she nodded.
An instant later his arms closed about her, pulling her against his hard chest.
Relief filled her. She just hoped she wasn’t making a mistake they’d both regret.
CHAPTER SIX
BY SATURDAY THEY were married.
Thierry steered his car through the congestion of central Paris, hyperaware of the woman beside him, her belongings stored neatly in the back.
He was a married man.
Married and expecting a child.
His hands clamped the wheel. Sweat beaded his hairline and something like panic stirred. Him—responsible for raising a child? The notion was so far out of left field, he still couldn’t quite believe it. He could face any number of extreme sports with a thrill of anticipation, yet the idea of being solely responsible for another life filled him with trepidation. He had no experience with kids, no desire for...
He caught the direction of his thoughts and cut it off. Shame pierced him, curdling his belly. So what if he knew nothing about child-rearing? He’d adapt. He’d take it one step at a time, just as he had when forced by injury to give up competitive skiing, and when he’d taken charge of the ailing family company. He had no right to complain, not when Imogen...
No, he refused to go there, at least today. For now it was enough that she was here with him. He was doing what needed to be done, despite his legal advisor’s warnings.
He’d never had much time for lawyers. But to be fair the old man had probably been as stunned by his news as Thierry’s family would be.
Thierry was the bachelor least likely to tie the knot, much to his grandparents’ despair. In his youth he’d vowed never to settle for any other woman since he couldn’t have Sandrine. Looking back on that time now, he felt merely curiosity and a twinge of remembered disappointment at the hurt which he’d thought had blighted his life.
How naïve he’d been. Far from being destroyed, his life had been filled to the brim. He’d spent the intervening years doing exactly what he loved—feeding his appetite for pleasure: sport, women, adventure.
‘You look happy.’
He turned to see Imogen scrutinising him, as if trying to read him. Why wouldn’t she? She’d put her life in his hands, and their child’s life.
She’d put on a good show of being indomitable these past few days, but her tiredness betrayed her. He couldn’t bear to think of where that would inevitably lead. The knowledge had been like acid eating at him ever since he’d heard. He’d never felt so appallingly useless.
‘Getting out of the city is cause for celebration, don’t you think?’ He forced a smile and was rewarded with a slight upward tilt of her lips.
He’d always liked the way she responded to his smile, even when, as now, he guessed she felt out of sorts.
Out of sorts! His smile twisted.
‘You don’t like the city? I think Paris is fabulous.’
Thierry shrugged, focusing his attention on the road and the van trying to change lanes into a non-existent space between a motorcycle and another car.
‘To visit, perhaps, but where we’re going there’ll be pure air. No fumes or road noise. No crowds either.’
‘I thought you enjoyed socialising.’
He shrugged, taking action to avoid a kamikaze motorcyclist. ‘I love a good party, but after a while I’ve had enough of the chatter.’
‘So what do you like, then?’
A sideways glance showed her turned towards him, her gaze curious, as if she really wanted to know.
It struck him that most of the women he’d known had had their own agendas—to be seen at the right parties or with the right people, the heir to the Girard fortune being one of the right people. They’d had fun together but how many had tried to know Thierry the man rather than Thierry the CEO or Thierry the scion of one of France’s elite families? Or, in the old days, Thierry the famous athlete?
‘Surely it’s not a hard question?’
Not hard at all. ‘Skiing. Downhill and very, very fast.’ Once he’d thought that was his destiny. He’d been in the peak of his form training for the Winter Olympics before a busted leg had put an end to those dreams.
‘What else?’
Another glance showed she hadn’t taken her eyes off him. Of course she wanted to know. He’d be the one raising their child. His hands tightened on the wheel.
‘White-water rafting. Rally driving. Rock climbing.’
‘You don’t like to be still.’
‘You could say that. Except for hot-air ballooning. There’s nothing quite like that for getting a little perspective in your life.’ He didn’t add that a lot of his balloon treks took him to inhospitable, often dangerous places where tourists rarely went.
‘And when you’re not outdoors?’
‘These days I’m usually work
ing.’ In the past he’d have unwound in the company of some gorgeous woman but lately his interest had waned. Until Imogen. Even today, in jeans and a plain shirt, her lithe curves made his hands itch for physical contact.
Not even telling himself that it was wrong to lust after a dying woman, a woman relying on him, could kill that hot flare of hunger.
‘What about you, Imogen? What do you like to do? I don’t mean the things on your travel list.’ It struck him suddenly that hers really had been a bucket list to be accomplished before she died. The realisation was like an icy hand curling gnarled fingers around his chest, squeezing till his lungs burned.
‘You mean, in my ordinary life?’
Thierry nodded, not trusting his voice.
‘The list is pretty ordinary, like me. No white-water rafting.’
‘Ordinary isn’t the way I’d describe you, Imogen.’ Not with her zest for life, her sense of humour and that entrancing mix of pragmatism and wide-eyed enthusiasm. As for her body... He couldn’t go there, not if he wanted to keep his wits on the traffic.
She laughed, but the smoky quality of her voice held a harsh rasp. ‘I suppose you think I’m more like a walking disaster zone. Suddenly you’ve been saddled with—’
‘Don’t!’ Thierry dragged in a breath that grated across his throat. This wasn’t the place to rehash their debate about her being a burden. He knew this was the right thing and he refused to resile from that. He forced a smile into his voice. ‘You don’t get out of answering that easily. Tell me at least three things that make you happy.’
In his peripheral vision, he saw Imogen slump a little in her seat. Then she turned to stare out the window.
‘Books. I love reading, anything from romance to history or biography.’
‘And? That’s only one.’
She hesitated. ‘Numbers. I’ve always liked numbers. There’s something...comfortable about working with figures and finding the patterns that create order out of chaos. I suppose that’s why I went into accounting.’
Thierry nodded. His cousin, Henri, was the same. Give him a spreadsheet and he was happy. The trouble was, though Henri was a genius with figures, he showed little aptitude for management. Lately it had become obvious that Thierry’s plan of leaving the family company in his charge was fraught with problems.